


Path of Least Resistance

by Gement



Series: Superbat Saturdays [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (minor) Blood, Batman Has a Bad Day, But They're Both Doing Their Best, Drugged Sex, EXTREMELY Unsafe Sex, Forced Sex, Fuck or Consequences Is Not Consent, M/M, Noncon Drug Use, Sex Pollen, Superman Has a Bad Day, Victim Blaming, You Are Cordially Invited to Join Me in Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement
Summary: Batman takes one for the team.(Or: An enumeration of Strategies for navigating inebriated amorous advances by Powered Individuals of vastly differential strength, with illustrative anecdotes from an incident of a Delicate Nature.)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Superbat Saturdays [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642783
Comments: 26
Kudos: 328
Collections: Batman/Superman; Superman/Batman





	Path of Least Resistance

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [抵抗最小的路径](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26769439) by [algor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/algor/pseuds/algor)



Bruce felt the blast more than heard it, subsonic shockwaves through his body. "No time. Give me a lift."

Clark nodded and put an arm around him. The hand under his armpit was a laughably insecure hold, but the only part that mattered was physical contact. For Superman, inertia was something that happened to other people.

They shot through the air. Bruce stayed loose and regulated his breathing. He would need situational flexibility when they touched down. South side. He didn't know enough about the streets here. Sunlight glared off of the Metropolis skyline, but his lenses adjusted to filter it. Down to the dust cloud that was still taking shape.

Bruce put a hand on his belt. The instant his feet touched pavement, he slapped a filter mask to his mouth and nose; the smoke was probably toxic. "What's the layout?"

Clark's eyes flicked around. "The bomb took out interior supports. Lots of heavy machinery, some kind of manufacturing. No people near the center. Don't go in until I take off the roof."

"Finally," a man's voice called from their left. "What was the holdup, a kitten in a tree?"

Both of them spun to look. Costumed silhouette, 100 meters, but Bruce didn't have time to parse the details yet past **rocket launcher**. _POOM-hissss-clink_. Clark stood between him and the projectile, faster than a blink. Something rattled on the ground by their feet.

Bruce threw his cloak up too late. Viscous liquid splashed on his face and clogged the filter. He hadn't gotten a good breath first, so he had maybe ninety seconds before he would have to breathe the cloud of mist rising around them.

"Enjoy the cocktails. I'll just be going." 

Clark should have been zipping after the shooter. Clark was wiping at his face. Bad sign. Bruce grabbed a handful of red cape and got out his toxicology reader as fast as he could. He swiped it across his cheek.

"Contact sedatives, profile 3, 10% resistance," the readout said through his comm. _Shit._ "Contact psychoactive, unidentified, closest receptor match Ivy-45. 90% projected resistance." Clark was spitting and wiping his eyes with dripping hands. _Shit shit shit._ "Possible euphoric effects include —"

Bruce tapped his ear to pause the readout and ripped the filter off. He had five sentences of air left. "Superman. We have to go."

"He's getting away." Clark looked at Bruce's gauntlet where it held his cape.

"Let him. Tactical retreat. We have to get away from civilians. Now."

"We?" Cognition already affected.

"Away from civilians. You're drugged."

"Oh. But you?"

"Me too. Up. _Now._ " He clenched his teeth, fighting the inhale.

Thankfully, Clark did as he was told. As soon as they cleared the cloud, Bruce gasped a breath. "Run us through water, wash it off." He tapped his ear. Coordination dropping. He could feel the sedative kicking in. At least he'd limited skin exposure. If a few square centimeters of face were hitting him this hard, a full dose would have dropped a horse. Or, if he were susceptible . . . "Switch analysis, Kryptonian."

"Sedatives, 100% resistance." They hit the Atlantic. Water battered his face and drenched the suit. "Psychoactive, resistance unknown. Effects unknown but possible." They surfaced. Bruce coughed. They headed north, faster and faster.

"That doesn't sound good," Clark said conversationally. "You should be able to make whatever antidotes we need at my place." He'd missed the part about sedatives, then, and didn't notice how Bruce's life signs were dragging.

"If you can, plug this into your system when you get there," Bruce said. He waved the reader at Clark, but it slipped from his fingers and dwindled into the North Atlantic. _Not good._

"Sorry." Clark set Bruce down on the ice and went to fetch his absurd front door key.

Bruce tried to focus. Ivy-45 was a resounding failure, from Poison Ivy's perspective. Arousal outweighed suggestibility. He might still be able to steer Clark, though. Hypnotic effects worked better on willing subjects. Better not counteract the sedative; muscle relaxants would be on his side shortly.

Clark picked him up gently, cradling him in a bridal carry. "Let's get you out of the cold." His voice was soft. Bruce could have gone to sleep right there, soaked in salt water at below zero.

The door boomed closed behind them. "Here, you'll never get warm if —" Clark stopped. "Uh. The euphoric effects you mentioned."

"Aphrodisiac."

"Bruce."

"You're away from civilians."

"I'm not away from you." Clark held him closer. Clark smelled good. Clark always smelled good.

Bruce closed his eyes. "Better me than anyone else."

Clark brought Bruce to rest on something soft, but didn't let him go. "That's not . . . I can't . . ."

"If you hold out, great. If you can't . . ." Bruce enunciated carefully. "It's okay. Be careful not to kill me. Use lube. Go get lube. Now."

Clark let him go for perhaps a second. "Got it. But I won't. I won't hurt you."

"Okay. Thank you." Bruce knew better than to argue. Neither of them were running on logic.

"You can't stay in these. You're soaked. That sounds like an excuse. Is that an excuse?" Clark's voice had a strained edge.

"It's okay, Clark. Hypothermia won't help."

Bruce let himself relax. Clark worked his gauntlets off, then his boots. In other circumstances, he'd have used superspeed. The entire suit would be on the floor by now. Clark unbuckled the armor straps slowly and lifted the cowl from Bruce's face with shaking hands. He kissed Bruce's forehead. That felt nice.

"I need the belt off to get the armor." Clark was petting his hair.

Bruce prodded at the belt. No. He didn't have the coordination. He would set something off and hurt himself. "Break it."

 _Crackle-snap._ The belt released 10kV when integrity was breached. Clark gasped. "That tickled. That . . . wow."

"Oversensitive."

"Yeah." Clark pulled away the armor and ran his hands over Bruce's spandex. Torso, thighs, arms. "I want to . . ."

Bruce didn't say anything. Minimum response was minimum stimulus, might slow him down.

Instead of pulling him out of the suit, Clark methodically ripped it open, one limb at a time, starting with wrists, then with ankles. More and more of Bruce's skin prickled in open air until finally he lay naked. Goosebumps rose all over him.

"You're freezing. Here." A draft, then Clark lay beside him, skin to skin, rubbing his opposite arm slowly. Erection digging hot against his thigh. "Oh. You're still lying on it. Sorry." Clark picked him up to clear the wet spandex from the bed, but gasped again. He took several deep breaths before moving. "Sorry. 90% resistance, right? You have no idea how good you feel."

Bruce nodded slowly as they lay down again. "Some idea. Dosed a few times before developed inoculations." He wasn't sure if he'd finished the sentence out loud. Probably. Close enough.

"And you're completely stoned, aren't you." Clark spoke softly again. He traced Bruce's eyelids with his fingers. "I shouldn't find that hot. It's creepy to find that hot."

"Linoleum," Bruce said. "Polar bears. Economic policy."

"What?"

"'m talking about economic policy. 's it hot?"

Clark laughed. "Yes. All right. Everything's hot. But you, like this . . ." He touched all along Bruce's side and stroked his back. "You, slow and helpless. It's hotter. It's beautiful."

 _I'm always slow and helpless,_ Bruce thought. _Next to you._

"Not like this."

Dignity was for people who weren't sedated out of their minds next to a naked, inhumanly-attractive work friend who needed to be kept placated. Bruce lifted an impossibly heavy arm to wrap it over Clark's shoulder and lean into the embrace. "Just hold me. For a while. Long as you can."

"Sure." Clark kissed him. It was a lovely kiss, but it unfortunately meant that Clark either wasn't paying attention to what he said or had already lost more control. Maybe both. Really great kiss.

Warm hands on his skin. Hard cock against his hip. His own rising erection and his scrotum sliding against Clark's body, the burning hot-cold contrast easing the lingering chill of the ocean. Clark's mouth on his.

He and Clark had fucked a few times, oral and manual. Clark was a thoughtful, attentive lover, as wholehearted about sex as he was about everything else he did. It felt good to be up against a man. Why didn't he fuck men more often? Short-sighted of him not to give Bruce Wayne more latitude when he defined his public image. Men felt good.

Everything felt good. Hm. Economic policy? Not that far gone. Vintage furniture. His mind's eye showed him a sensuously curved mahogany table leg, smooth, touchable. He stroked his hand along it. He stroked his hand along Clark's perfectly-muscled back, pleased by the variety of sensations but kind of regretting the loss of the table leg.

Clark sighed. The tickle of breath on Bruce's ear made his cock twitch. Clark must have felt the motion; he ran his fingers down Bruce's abs, pausing for a long, tantalizing moment before taking his cock in hand. Bruce shivered with pleasure, which made Clark shiver as well.

"I tried not to touch you," Clark said under his breath. "I don't think I'll be able to stop."

"I know. Focus on safety, control. Be careful."

"I'll be careful," Clark repeated back. His hands roamed across Bruce's skin again, and he shifted his hips. The change in body language was subtle but clear; all pretense that Bruce might have a say in it, that Clark wouldn't take what he wanted, had left the Fortress.

Acceptance was freedom. Bruce had chosen this solution. He opened his eyes.

Light danced in the crystal walls and ceiling. It shone off his skin, highlighting his scars. It shone off Clark's skin, highlighting his perfection; every photon added to his impossible strength. His eyes weren't quite focused on Bruce. The sun shimmered in his eyelashes.

Clark brushed his fingers across Bruce's lips. Sucking cock sounded pleasant and relatively low-risk, if Bruce could find the coordination for it. With a headful of Ivy-45, Clark might not notice if he was coordinated or not.

"It'll be all right," Clark said distantly. "It'll be good. You'll like it." He bent his head to kiss Bruce's throat, rubbing up against his thigh. Bruce let himself drift.

Mouth on his cock. Bruce jerked in surprise. Who the hell responded to their most desperate erection by focusing on someone else's cock? Clark, apparently. That was probably another point in the 'too good for this world' column. Good, though. It bought time.

Also good because it felt phenomenal. Slow suction, soft tongue, hands teasing his skin. Bruce tried to hold off, but voluntary control of his orgasms was not a current neurochemical possibility. All his awareness dwindled down to the head of his cock blunt in Clark's throat, then tongue licking at his slit, down again and his balls tightened. He arched into it and shouted, raw and honest. Huh. So that was what he sounded like when he didn't control the noise. He groaned when Clark swallowed.

Clark breathed heavily, picking Bruce up to hold him chest-to-chest, cradling him in his lap. "You feel so good."

"Mm-hm." Bruce was having a pleasurable, if not very realistic, dream about going to bed with Clark in the Fortress of Solitude. He knew enough about lucid dreaming to recognize that his complete lack of tension was a tell. Clark was jerking off against Bruce's side, taking the edge off. He groaned in Bruce's ear. Warm splash on his skin. Ten-second refractory period, the lucky bastard. If the dream lasted past sex, maybe he'd get Clark to take him joyriding. They could go watch sunrises.

Cold, slick fingers slid between his cheeks to touch his sphincter, which was _not_ a dream sensation. Bruce snapped alert, or tried to, kicking and striking instinctively. Throat, solar plexus.

He'd been drugged. Assess.

His head swam, his reflexes were off, and his muscles were so sluggish that the arm restraining him felt as strong as Superman. Throat strike felt like it had connected, but it couldn't have; that one took almost no force to incapacitate.

"Shh, shhhh. You don't have to fight. I'm being careful. Just relax." Clark. Clark with blown pupils and a hand between his legs, ignoring his attempts to escape. Clark with an erection fueled by Ivy-45. This was not how Bruce wanted to die. "Easy. Easy. I'll take good care of you."

Bruce tried again to shove him away. Stupid, stupid. He was acting out of panic. Panic served nothing. Clark hissed a breath and held him tighter, closing his eyes and biting his lip.

Clark was ashamed. Clark was aroused by overpowering him and was ashamed. The more Bruce struggled, the more he would feed that fire, and then he really might die. With that clarity came self-control. He went slack all at once, dead weight in Clark's lap. "Just startled," he mumbled.

"I know. I know." Strong fingers pushed into him. "You'll feel so good."

Bruce let his adrenaline burst drain away. His mind clouded over again. There was a tactic, something he'd meant to try. Right. "Would you . . ." A finger prodded his prostate and he lost the thought. "Ah. Ah."

"Would I?"

"Ah. Ah. Ah." Okay, that was on purpose. Clark confirmed it by kissing him, still fingering him into incoherence.

"You don't have to steer. You always try so hard to steer me. Do you think I don't notice?" Clark pressed a third finger into him carefully. "You've needed this. You've needed me to give you this."

Bruce whined and twisted, overwhelmed by the intensity of the stretch. Clark restrained him effortlessly. Whatever it took. Whatever Clark needed to tell himself to keep it slow.

"Just like that. Let go. Let go. I've got this."

Bruce tucked his mind into a corner of awareness and focused on a discipline of completely natural physical response. It wasn't hard, under sedative profile 3. He let go, more or less. He moved in animal pleasure.

"I'm going to fuck you now," Clark said. He was trying to keep his voice gentle, with limited success.

Bruce pulled his thoughts together. "Mouth first. Pls."

"Still trying to steer?" Clark thrust his fingers deeper.

"Little. Pls."

Clark pressed Bruce's head against a rock-hard shoulder. "The way I want your mouth . . . You wouldn't like it."

"Would I lose teeth?"

That shocked a little sense into him. "What? No! God, no."

"'n I'll like it. Pls."

"You asked for it." Everything shifted around until Bruce lay prone between perfect golden-brown thighs, bathed in sunlight, beautiful as polished maplewood . . . Had he given himself a furniture fetish? Later. Deal with it later.

"Seems like every time you open your mouth, it's to boss me around." Clark dragged Bruce's lip with his thumb. Bruce let his jaw fall open silently. Clark held him by the hair and fed him just an inch or so of cock. He focused on moving his lips, his tongue, slurping at the foreskin. Not his best performance.

"Oh, you're so out of it." Clark laughed. "Wow, you're like a puppy." His hand tightened in Bruce's hair. "I think about your mouth. When we're working. When it's all I can see of you without cheating." Another inch. No point in sucking, just relax. "I remember how smooth you were, how much you enjoyed showing off. Taking me all the way down your throat, easy as anything. Can you do that now? Or will you choke on me?"

He slid in further at all the wrong angle, the head of his cock ramming Bruce's soft palate. It hurt, but Bruce had deliberately burned out his gag reflex years ago. It made clearing his stomach of toxins trickier, but he had never thought of another disadvantage. First time for everything.

"Wow. Mmmm." Clark's voice wasn't steady. He nudged a few more times just to make sure, then tilted Bruce to a better angle. Bruce's throat made a soft wet choking noise by itself as he lost his air. Bruce stayed loose. Clark's hands felt good, and Clark's legs against his body. Clark's cock, the slight painful twinge in his throat, felt good too. Doing something difficult and doing it well, that always felt good.

Clark bumped past the tight point over and over to hear it again. "And now, when I see your mouth, I'll remember this," he whispered.

That was probably true, unfortunately. This would be the world's most awkward morning after, and, given Bruce's chosen persona, his ranked list on the subject was extensive. For lasting repercussions, he had thought nothing would ever beat Talia's father walking in on them. Hopefully they could still work together without Clark going terminally Midwestern on him.

Clark gasped and came without warning. His cock was so far down Bruce's throat that swallowing wasn't even necessary. A long shudder, another, another, hand resting ever so lightly on his hair. If he didn't pull out soon, losing consciousness was a distinct possibility. Bruce's body twisted involuntarily, desperate for air. Clark gave him a couple of breaths, then did it again, coming immediately. Again. Clark made a deep, almost pained noise low in his throat.

Cascade effect. Good. Peak response, maybe another 30-60 minutes before regaining control. Assuming Clark processed it on the same half-life curve as a human, which — Bruce was fading out again. He squirmed weakly.

"How are you like this?" Clark rammed his throat again. It was rubbed raw. Bruce tasted blood. He reached a hand up to tug at Clark's fingers, and Clark shuddered all over again. "Yeah?"

Clark pulled out to let him talk. Bruce silently swabbed his mouth in the sorest spots and held up his fingers. He looked up into Clark's eyes, focusing as best he could. Clark licked the offered fingers; his jaw worked. "It's not lost teeth."

"Making sure you knew," Bruce rasped. "'s all." He wrapped his lips around the head of Clark's cock again, soft and easy.

Clark snarled, frustrated. "Why won't you —" He cut himself off and held very still.

After a few breaths, Bruce let Clark slide out of his mouth again. "Break? Too much practice. Sorry. Y'can hurt me. 'Sokay."

"No, I can't. You can't — Rrrgh!" Clark's cock jumped, spilling a few hot, salty drops on Bruce's cheek. Bruce licked him slowly, setting him off again.

"How can you just . . . _take_ it?"

Bruce shrugged dreamily. "'swhat I do."

* * *

Clark glared down at Bruce through a white-hot haze. Bruce's smug, gorgeous face, his lips battered and swollen, his eyes closed and placid under dark, brooding eyebrows. Handsome and powerful and _too goddamn fragile_ and didn't seem to understand that Clark just needed to _pound something_ until it _broke_.

Which he couldn't do unless he went to the goddamn Moon, and there was no one to fuck on the Moon. He couldn't, he couldn't make himself leave when Bruce was _right here_ , all warm and breathing and utterly fuckable. Pulse fluttering under every inch of his skin, too slow, too slow. He needed to hear it race, he needed to see Bruce dragged out along the same ragged edge as he was riding, but no.

It wasn't just the drugs. He'd shown it for a second, just a flicker of a fight, and then gone back down. Smug fucking stoicism, always had to be in control. Half-senseless and letting Clark do anything he wanted and still _somehow_ being bossy about it. Wouldn't struggle, wouldn't beg, wouldn't give him shame or fear or _any_ of the alternatives to smashing him to bits. Clark couldn't break him without breaking him.

Don't break him. Focus on safety. It was all he'd asked for. Just don't kill him. That was a pathetically short request list. Anyone else, Clark would have felt pity. But no, it was Bruce, who could turn "please don't kill me" into a pissing contest. Who had asked Clark to bring him here, knowing what would happen to him. Who had _asked for this._

All of Clark's frustrated lust focused down to a point. "Then that's what you'll do."

Not even a twitch. Clark dragged Bruce up to feel more of his skin. The brush of contact made him come again. Bruce sighed and leaned on him as if he hadn't just gotten his throat fucked bloody. As if he hadn't dared Clark to do it twice.

Safety first. Clark draped Bruce's legs around his hips, pressing their cocks together, giving himself yet another ball-wrenching orgasm that didn't make anything better. Bruce hung his arms over Clark's shoulders and used him as a pillow. Bastard. Clark jammed lube into him three fingers at a time, making him grunt and whine. It wouldn't kill him. And it sure didn't break him.

Too many positions, how could he even . . . He needed to watch Bruce's face, he needed every inch of their skin touching, he needed to pound him into the bed, he needed to feel him writhe as freely as possible, he _NEEDED_. He didn't trust his hands. He sank his teeth into Bruce's shoulder, closing his mouth slowly until Bruce twitched and made a low, quiet sound of honest pain.

He made himself stop. Bruce had endured hours of torture, sober, by professionals. A drugged-up, clumsy lover who still wanted him whole the next day didn't stand a chance. He kissed the bite mark, then hooked an arm under Bruce's leg, hiking him up just enough to get him in position.

He set the head; the feel of Bruce's body just starting to spread around him, slick and hot, made him spasm again. He sank Bruce down onto him, groaning. He thought he might cry with relief. Soft, warm, yielding . . . He came again. And again.

Bruce moaned in his ear. "'sgood," he murmured, voice thrashed. Clark came again. And again. He didn't even have to move. Which was good, because he didn't dare move. If he let himself so much as twitch, he might hammer Bruce to jelly.

Bruce shifted on him slowly. Clark groaned in pain and pleasure. He _NEEDED_ more. He didn't dare.

Time to play with gravity. Yes. That would work. He rose an inch from the bed, then flew back down abruptly. He didn't take Bruce with him. Bruce dropped onto him with a startled grunt. There. That orgasm felt like it was getting somewhere.

He did it again, again, a little higher, as fast as he could bear to come, which was basically as soon as he'd finished the last one. Bruce tried to keep up his ragdoll act, but this was more than he could hold still for. He clung, trying to stop himself from falling. Clark rose higher to compensate, just high enough to make Bruce cry out on every drop.

That was better. His skin was on fire. His balls were empty, and it hurt to keep coming; he'd always wondered what that felt like. It felt good, because everything felt good, because Bruce had made him think about _economic policy_ , for God's sake, don't think about beautiful balanced budgets, don't think about pink elephants, think about fucking Bruce, who was here to get fucked, who needed to break safely but couldn't. He needed Clark's help.

He made himself stay on the bed for a moment, but shuddered through a few more orgasms anyway. Bruce whimpered and set off yet another one.

"It's been, what, two minutes?" Clark said. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. He failed. "I'm not even close to wearing out. How long do you, nnnnnngh, do you think I'll keep going?"

"Mebbe an hour," Bruce mumbled dully. He still wouldn't fight.

"Are you gonna take that for an hour?"

"Yeah. If you want."

"Yeah. I want."

Bruce just relaxed against him again. _Damn_ it. Clark rose and dropped at full speed. Bruce yelped, a pathetic little noise. _Yes._

Clark settled into a rhythm. His body was a blaze of sensations, and most of those sensations were Bruce. Bruce shaking, Bruce clinging to him, Bruce making a raw, pained noise with every impalement. Bruce finally, finally struggling, his heart and breath speeding up. He didn't try to pull away, but his attempts to fight gravity grew desperate.

"That's right," Clark whispered. "I know what you need." Bruce just whined. Clark sped up.

Bruce's hot, soft body on his cock, Bruce's hips held carefully in his hands, _be careful,_ oh, he was being so careful. Bruce's buttocks landing on his thighs with another satisfying _thump_ and Bruce's helpless cry in his ears. Bruce breaking on him. Safely.

Clark came continuously in a blur of stretched time, finally getting what he needed.

Eventually, he slowed down. He only came every third drop, then every fifth, every tenth, then he could finally bear to stop. He should stop. They'd both gotten what they needed. With a burst of self-discipline, he lowered Bruce to the bed and pulled out.

He kissed the tears from Bruce's eyes and cheeks. He kissed his bruised mouth. Bruce made a feeble attempt to kiss back.

He should make sure there was no real damage. There shouldn't be, but bodies were unpredictable, and he'd been distracted. He kissed and licked down Bruce's skin, tasting his sweat and delicious, intoxicating pheromones.

Bruce's belly was covered with come. Clark licked it up and cleaned Bruce's cock gently with his tongue. Bruce twitched.

"It's okay," Clark said soothingly. "I'm done. I'm just taking care of you."

Bruce tried to roll away to his side. He must be too out of it to understand. Clark held him in place and finished licking him clean. Bruce kept squirming, finally able to show his honest reactions. Clark was glad for him.

Bruce's cock was beautiful. He could just keep licking it . . . He'd come down here for something. Checking for injuries. He could smell blood.

He got some lube for his fingers and spread Bruce's legs to look. Bruce didn't fight it, but his breath hitched. There were smears of blood between his legs and on his thighs, but not enough to be dangerous.

"I'm just making sure I didn't hurt you. Injure you, I mean. You know." Clark was getting a creeping sense of unease. He had hurt Bruce. He had hammered Bruce for an hour. "I just have to check."

He slid two fingers in slowly and gently, meeting no resistance. Bruce moaned in pain. Clark felt around carefully. Bruce whimpered under his breath, but there weren't any spots that made him yelp worse than the others. Just the chafing you would expect from having hard sex . . . for an hour . . . without a rest . . . or more lube . . .

_Oh, sweet Rao. What have I done?_

* * *

Bruce came back from the shower, limping but controlled. Clark was sitting on the wrecked bed with his head in his hands. Bruce finally noticed the patchwork quilt shoved to the corner of the bed; it was a simple angular pattern in cheerful red, blue, and gold. Definitely a family gift. Hopefully Clark wouldn't feel the need to burn it. Bruce sat down beside him in silence.

"I'm sorry," Clark said in a low voice.

Bruce took a slow breath. "For whatever small fraction was your choice, I accept your apology. For the rest, I only want to hear it from the sadist with a chemistry set, who chose the cruelest possible tactic to clear us out of his way."

Clark nodded. "I wanted to hurt you," he said, barely audible. "I told myself you'd asked for it."

"You played whatever mental games you had to to keep me alive. I've felt it. Logic goes out the window. You kept me alive. No lasting damage. Thank you."

"You should not be thanking me. _You_ should not be trying to make _me_ feel better. God, Bruce."

Bruce shrugged and put a hand on Clark's shoulder. Clark didn't move. They sat silently.

Eventually Clark said, "Why didn't you fight? You could tell, couldn't you? That I wanted you to fight."

"It wasn't clear." Probable, but not clear. Bruce remembered the sick dread buffeting against the sedatives, then set it aside. He would deal with it later. Or not. Not everything had to be dealt with. "If I gave you any reason to meet violence with violence, I didn't know what would happen."

Clark heaved once. Bruce hadn't known anything could make Superman nauseous. He filed it away as a data point.

Clark looked up at him, agonized. "Why did you come with me?"

Bruce sighed. "Okay. Here were my exit points. One, I tell you to fly away alone, leaving me in an unidentified airborne drug cloud, standing next to a bomber, sedated, with a _projected_ resistance to a drug that could let me hurt people. You don't know what's happening to you, and might not even think to wash it off."

"Yes. Yes, okay."

Bruce carried on, finally feeling a little anger. He kept his voice quiet and level. "Two, after we're clear of Metropolis, I tell you to lock yourself in the Fortress and drop me off along the way, away from population centers, drugged and hypothermic."

"Yes. Okay, I get it."

"Three, same as two, but I ask you to approach a city after the drugs have had longer to affect you. You leave me on a hospital doorstep in Greenland. They'll have one in Nuuk, good luck finding it. Where I could still be at risk of hurting people and would be at much greater risk of someone unmasking me while unconscious."

Clark stopped trying to interrupt.

"And in all those cases. Have you ever dealt with this before?"

"No."

"First time on an aggressive aphrodisiac. Left to your own willpower to stay home instead of following your amplified senses to the nearest hot body. If you were lucky, you might only have hurt a polar bear. They're on the vulnerable species list, you know."

Clark snorted despite himself. "Stop trying to make me think bad thoughts about polar bears."

"Neither of us was safe alone. This was a risk, but a calculated one. Better me than anyone else."

Clark looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. Thank you."

Bruce was exhausted, aching, and aware of a possible meltdown lurking in his subconscious, for which he would strongly prefer to be in the privacy of his cave. "You're welcome. Can I get a lift home?"

"Yes. Of course. Bruce . . . Are we okay?"

"We're okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Related reading: I know Batman/OMC is a hard sell, but I do have another fic looking at Bruce's complicated navigation through consent-violated waters. [Tell Me That You Want Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23073679) requires no background other than "civilian LTR, detailed opinions on consent." Happy pollinated reading!


End file.
